


Uniformity

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Boot Worship, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dominance, Kink Meme, M/M, Military Kink, Oral Sex, Smut, Top John, Top John Watson, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson is uniformed.  Holmes is delightfully uncontrolled.  D/S Johnlock from the Sherlock MF Holmes Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uniformity

_Ordered_ , you think, _systematic method of attack_.

It is the only proper way to approach such a complex puzzle as he presents tonight, standing by the hearth in his dress uniform. His brass buttons shine in the light and the warm dry air from the fire brings the scent of hot metal and polish but

_one must be disciplined. Controlled._

It’s best to start from the beginning.

The beginning is his hair, slick with pomade and smelling of tobacco smoke but in the short warm tendrils at the nape of his neck his cologne lingers still; sandalwood and orange. Where his hair just brushes the rough wool of his high collar there is a tang of camphor and lavender from the wash-room and your tongue burns when you run it along the textured edge of an epaulette.

The button-holes are stiff with starch, thick and floury in your mouth when you wrap your tongue around the shank of the first button. Each button comes free in turn with a jerk of your jaw and a torturous chafing slide of stubbled skin on wool.

When the braided edges of the jacket part they reveal to you the first tantalising glimpse of leather and with just a slight incline of your head towards his waist you can smell it, deliciously warm from his body. The feel of it between your teeth nearly brings you undone, and you become aware of the rigid pressure of his boot against the swollen bulge in your trousers. If only he’d stop

 _press, release,_ you breathe in time with the slight flex of his thigh. It’s easier if you only think of it in terms of the rhythm of damp wool under your sweating palms. One deep breath and then another and your control returns.

 _A time for everything,_ you think calmly, _and everything in time._

Now, for instance, is the time when you skim your nose along the inseam of his trousers, nostrils flaring slightly at the sharp tang of sweat at his knee and lips parting almost against your will to taste the damp evidence of his desire staining the fine weave near his flies.

Not the end, not even near (for him at least) but the _pinnacle_ of your journey is his boots. Black and slick; tight on his muscular calves and thick ankles and delicate where they hug the arch of his foot they are a treat for the eyes to be sure, but it’s not the sight you crave.

The smell is strong; polish and earth and beneath it the rich odour of the hide itself which always brings to you memories of pleasure and of the sweet release of submitting to his will. It is difficult in your mind to disentangle it from the smell of sweat and seed and bloodied skin that inevitably accompanies it but

_is it time yet?_

You glance up at his face from under lowered lashes. His head is thrown back and his cheeks are flushed with desire.

_It is time._

While he is immersed in his own fantasies, sensitive to every touch without judgement or shame, it is your opportunity to indulge.

The first taste is dirt and earth; grit rubs your tongue and lips raw. Over sensitised and swollen, they are receptive to every crease and curve when you pass them again over the shining wet swathe just above the toe. He is watching you again; you can hear the hitch in his breathing when you take the first buckle between tongue and teeth. His guttural groan makes your cock throb hotly and this time it is _you_ that presses against _him_.

The neatly stitched edge is hot where it presses in behind his knee and yields easily under your incisors. You don’t peel the boot down, you just pull it away a little and revel in the elastic resistance against your jaw muscles and the rising scent of sweat dampened wool and linen. When you curve your tongue in under the turnover you find the sharp flavour of unpolished leather; soft with age and smooth.

He shifts and groans and rolls his hips. His buttocks tighten in response to your absent stroking of his upper thigh while you work.

With a not uncomfortable curve of your arm you can reach his flies and it is but a moment’s work to unbutton his trousers and have him in your hand, hard and hot and red against your pale fingers. For a moment your senses overload; the smell of his skin and the leather and the rushing pounding pressure of your own desire is too much. With a regretful sigh you relinquish the boot and move around to take him in your mouth.

He thrusts desperately, carelessly at the first touch of your lips and your eyes water. You bite down, a little harder than you know he likes and with a curse he backs away. When you move forward again, lips open and shining, he stays carefully still.

You gather up the beaded liquid on his glans, relishing the familiar acrid taste. His abdominal muscles tense under your hand when you slide down towards his pubic bone, but he remains still and compliant even when wrap the hand around his base and hollow out your cheeks.

You start to move, slowly, and become again aware of your own body. You open your flies and your damp cock slides easily over the instep of his boot. You press the heel of your hand down to keep it tight against the leather, feeling the edge of the sole catch your foreskin on every downstroke and expose the head to rub against the hearthrug.

His climax is swift, arriving with a whispered curse and a sudden jerk of his hips. He watches your face tenderly as you swallow his seed but when he leans back against the mantle you are at liberty to look down again.

The pale length of your cock slips against the hide, marking its passage with a shining trail. With a final thrust, and a helpless groan you succumb to a dazzling climax. When you open your eyes, white strings of cooling ejaculate adorn his boot.

He watches you, his face impassive. With a smile you bend your head to the leather, laving it carefully with your tongue until all traces of you are gone.

When you are finished he raises you to your feet for an embrace, his eyes are filled with pleasure and pride. No man could ask for a more faithful servant.


End file.
